


Mediterraneo

by killabeez



Category: Highlander, Highlander: The Raven, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Community: hlh_shortcuts, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Threesome, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-20
Updated: 2008-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-03 10:26:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years ago, Duncan walked away and didn't look back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mediterraneo

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Taz in the 2008 hlh_shortcuts story exchange. Thank you so very much to my two kind betas, Unovis and hafital, who helped make this better. It was a great kindness on both their parts, and so much appreciated. I deeply hope it pleases.

* * *

It was late when Duncan let himself in, the street empty save for a sleek, gray cat who crouched at the top of the steps, gave him an assessing look, then slipped through the rail and disappeared into the hedge.

A faint, musty smell greeted him as soon as he got the door open. After being shut up all winter, the flat needed a good airing. If he planned on being there longer, he'd give it a spring cleaning, too.

The door bumped against something; the post had come. He pushed past and shrugged out of his coat, hanging it up before bending down to scoop up the pile of envelopes and magazines. Most of it was advertisements. The upkeep and bills were handled by an agency, and he seldom used this address. He started down the hall, suppressing a yawn and longing for nothing so much as his bed. Joe could drink him under the table these days, and the jetlag didn't help.

As he put the mail down on the hall table, one handwritten envelope caught his eye. It was a different shape than the others, and when he slid it from the pile, the faint scent of a familiar perfume teased his nose. The postmark was in Greek stamped over the stylized image of a basilica, the address written in Amanda's flawless script.

Duncan took the envelope and headed upstairs, tearing it open as he went. He slid the letter out, a single sheet folded in two, and held it up, breathing in the smell of it. He hadn't seen her in almost a decade. She'd been in Toronto for a while, then Paris, but she'd dropped off the map after that and even Joe hadn't known where she'd gone off to.

Duncan toed off his shoes and unbuttoned his shirt with one hand, unfolding the letter with the other. He went into the bathroom and started a bath running, then sat down on the closed lid of the commode and began to read.

The tone of the letter was breezy, familiar but not really personal. _I heard you were coming to London,_ she said, but didn't say who'd told her. _Thought maybe I'd catch you._ She talked of Easter in Corfu, of the boats and the fireworks over the harbor, of the fact that she'd decided to take a vacation from everything for a while and soak up the sun. _One of the perks,_ she said, and he could hear her voice as she said it, could imagine the flash of her dimples and the little tilt of her head. One of the perks of being Immortal, she meant. No skin cancer to worry about.

_You should come,_ she said near the end, like an afterthought. _It's been too long, and you could use a vacation yourself. The world will survive without you for a few weeks, I promise. Besides, I need someone around here who can cook, or I might starve to death, and you know how much I hate that._ He chuckled, remembering the last time she'd tried to cook for him. Starvation wouldn't kill an Immortal, not permanently, but he wasn't sure the same thing could be said for Amanda's stroganoff.

Duncan folded the letter and stood up, flipping the envelope over to look again at the return address. Regret weighed heavy, and a part of him wished he could take her up on it. It really had been too long, and as little as he felt he had to offer in the way of company at the moment, Amanda had always been good for him in the ways that counted.

He set the letter aside and finished undressing, frowning a moment at the flowing _London, United Kingdom_ on the front. How had she got this address, anyway, and who had known he'd be here? Joe would have mentioned it if he'd heard from her. His accountant in New York knew where he was, and he presumed his Watcher, but otherwise he'd told no one except Joe. There'd been no one to tell for longer than he cared to remember.

It had to have been Joe, worried about him, as usual. He'd probably spent no small effort tracking Amanda down so he could call her and tell her to take pity on Duncan, convince her to invite him to the islands for a few weeks in the hopes it would do him some good. It would be like Joe to play it close to the vest, play it like he'd had nothing to do with the whole scheme.

The water in the tub steamed hot, and Duncan shut off the faucet, then climbed in, sinking down with a groan of bliss. The tub was the best thing about this flat; it was deep enough that he could submerge, the water taking his weight. He let it close over his head, then surfaced and rested his neck against the cool porcelain. Feeling tension and residual travel fatigue ebb away, he closed his eyes.

It was a weight off his mind, knowing Amanda was all right, that she was happy. Ever since Joe had told him the story of what happened with her friend Wolfe, he'd worried. In another life, he would have sought Wolfe out himself, tried to get through to him--maybe even taken him on as a student. Things being what they were, he'd called Matthew McCormick instead, and persuaded him to see what he could do. Amanda had called him near tears to thank him. It was the last time he'd talked to her. According to Joe, a year later, Amanda had sold her half of the club in Paris to her partner and made herself scarce.

Duncan stretched an arm out, snagging the letter from the edge of the sink. He read it again, this time reading between the lines. He'd known Amanda almost four hundred years. She'd been his lover, his best friend, sometimes the bane of his existence. She could put on a smile and fake it with the best of them, but he knew her; even now, it surprised him how much that was true. And this time, he read what she didn't say.

Maybe he was right about Joe's part in Amanda's invitation, but Amanda wasn't taking pity on him any more than she ever had. Even after Tessa, it hadn't been about pity.

She was right. It had been too long. And Duncan decided that once he'd spent some time with Joe, there was nothing else happening in his life that couldn't wait.

 

* * *

 

The moment he stepped out of the taxi, the sunlight and the fragrant breeze wrapped themselves around him like a blessing. They'd ridden with the windows open since Corfu Town, and already he could feel the tension that had been knotted within him start to relax. When they'd come up the hill from the main road, and he'd seen the terraces and gardens of Amanda's villa come into view, he'd felt a pang of sadness, but with it came the quiet certainty that told him he'd been right to come.

He left the cab at the bottom of the long drive and walked up, breathing in the verdant smells of the lush foliage and the smell of the sea in great lungfuls. Terns cried out over the water. Stone stairs led down to a private beach a few hundred feet below the house, wildflowers spilling out between the cracks of the steps. For a moment, when the deep, resonant vibration of Amanda's buzz washed over him, Duncan's heart lifted.

Amanda met him at the door dressed in white, a flowing tunic and pants that left her arms bare and set off her tanned shoulders, her dark hair, longer and softer than he'd seen it in a while. She gave him a once-over, her eyes alight with the old mischief. "So," she said, "you just passing through, or are you going to put that down and give me a proper hello?"

The smile that broke over him felt rusty from disuse. He set his bag down and found himself with his arms full of Amanda. She felt wonderful--she always felt wonderful--but there came a fleeting, awkward moment when he wasn't sure whether to let go, or to kiss her.

"Sorry I'm late," he said at last as he let her go.

She smiled, wide and bright. "You're forgiven."

He followed her into a large foyer with a fountain in the middle, mosaic tiles describing seashells, dolphins, and other ocean motifs at their feet. In front of him, two marble steps led to a sunken living room decorated with a mix of soothing colors, beautiful antiques and ceramics, the centerpiece a stunning Bösendorfer grand piano. Off to the right was a spacious kitchen and what looked like French doors that led to a garden; to the left, wide sliding doors led to the patio and a terrace with a pool and a view of the beach below. They were open, long sheer curtains moving with the fragrant breeze.

Amanda watched his reaction, expectant. "So, what do you think?"

"The place is beautiful, Amanda. Peaceful."

"You sound surprised," she said, teasing him.

"Not surprised. Just not what I pictured."

She shrugged. "A girl needs her privacy now and then."

Duncan still wanted to kiss her, but something was stopping him. He realized they didn't quite fit together as easily as they once had. Maybe it was because Wolfe was a question he still didn't know the answer to, and he felt wary of trespassing. Or maybe it was only that he'd been alone for so long.

When the sense of another Immortal hit, it was so unexpected, he felt his heart kick.

He tensed, turning toward the door. "You expecting company?" His hand was halfway to where his sword should be before he remembered it was still in its case. Amanda stopped him with a touch on his arm.

"Relax, darling."

He turned back, and she looked over Duncan's left shoulder toward the patio, smiling.

A figure stood in the doorway, a towel slung around his neck, chest bare and long limbs as brown as Amanda's. Duncan barely had time to register all that before the newcomer grinned and said in a deep, familiar voice, "Don't look so worried, Mac. Nobody here but friends."

Abashed and caught off-guard, Duncan couldn't help staring. "Methos!"

Methos's grin widened, and he drawled, "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

Methos looked good. He looked better than good--he looked tan, relaxed, fit. The sun had bronzed his hair, and he had a pair of sunglasses perched rakishly on his head; Duncan was suddenly aware of his own appearance, pale, rumpled and grimy from the trip. In spite of that, he felt himself start to smile, the unexpected sight of that sharp-featured, familiar face like a good belt of scotch: sharp, a little bitter, but sweet and heady, too.

Before he knew he meant to do it, Duncan stepped forward, hand outstretched. Methos took it and surprised him, pulling him close for a moment before letting him go. Duncan caught a whiff of sea salt and sunscreen.

Methos seemed genuinely glad to see him, too, his eyes crinkling, the bright flash of his grin unguarded for once. He looked happier than Duncan could remember ever seeing him.

"It's good to see you," Methos said, as if in this place, none of their old battles mattered any more.

Duncan relaxed despite himself, and drew a breath that felt like it had been a long time coming. "Good to see you, too," he said, and it came out more fervent than he really meant it to. Then realization dawned. "It was you, wasn't it? You knew I was coming to London to see Joe."

Methos shrugged, unrepentant. "Guilty as charged."

"Why am I not surprised?" But he was. He felt unsettled by the idea that Methos would want him around. He'd thought those days were over.

He became aware of how close they were standing; an awkward silence fell, in which Duncan's eyes drank Methos in too deeply, strayed over his face a little too long. It lasted only a moment before Amanda asked, "Have you eaten?"

"Not since Athens," he said, relieved. He stepped back.

"Perfect. We were about to do drinks and hors d'oeuvres and watch the sun set."

"Sounds wonderful."

She put a hand on his arm, drawing him with her. "Come on, let's get you settled in."

 

* * *

 

Duncan's room was on the second floor, with doors that opened onto a terrace overlooking the pool and the sea below. "All the bedrooms face the water," Amanda told him, showing him the closet and the ensuite bathroom. The double bed, layered in white and blue cotton, looked soft and obscenely comfortable. Duncan put his bag down near the window and circled the room, trying to come to terms with the situation, which was decidedly... odd. Three hundred and seventy years, give or take, and he was pretty sure he and Amanda had never slept under the same roof and not in the same bed.

It wasn't like he'd expected... well, he wasn't sure what he'd expected. The last time they'd been together, the sex had been spectacular, but afterwards Amanda had been distracted, out the door before he even had a chance to say a proper hello.

He finished his circuit of the room and stopped, facing her. "Thanks. It's great," he said, watching her for a sign. You could never be sure with Amanda; she might be trying to tell him something, or she might be offering him a choice. Most of the time, she liked things up front and uncomplicated. Then there were the times like this, when he remembered that she was still a puzzle to which he might never have all the pieces.

She gave away nothing, only smiled and brushed a quick kiss against his cheek, patting him on the chest. "Make yourself comfortable, darling. We'll be downstairs when you're ready." Then she was gone, leaving Duncan alone with his thoughts.

_We._ Was she trying to tell him something, about her and Methos? But that made no sense. Amanda wouldn't invite him to stay if she was planning to break it to him gently--it wasn't her style. Duncan dismissed that out of hand, shaking his head. It had to be something else. Maybe she'd sensed how out of practice he was, and thought he needed to warm up to the idea. He rubbed a hand over his face, thinking that wasn't far from the truth.

He splashed water on his face and changed clothes, opting for loose, lightweight cotton and silk. Feeling better, he unpacked the rest of his things, a subtle weight lifting as he left his sword case in the closet.

The sky was turning by the time he made his way downstairs, the long red rays of the sun gilding the tile floors. He could hear Methos and Amanda out on the patio, talking together like old friends. They seemed so comfortable together, and he could barely remember the person he'd been with them, could barely remember what it was like to be connected to the world, to be easy with friends he could trust. He'd tried, in New York. He'd tried to make a new life for himself, find his step in the world again, but he seemed to have lost the knack for it.

Amanda laughed at something Methos said, the sound bright and sweet, and Duncan hesitated, unwilling to intrude. But he was here, wasn't he? Nothing for it but to put on a smile, go out there and make the best of it.

"You're not seriously still angry with me over that!" Amanda was saying as he came outside.

"Angry is too strong a word. Let's say annoyed, shall we?"

"Oh, Methos, lighten up. It's not like you were using it anyway." She looked back over her shoulder; seeing Duncan, she lowered her sunglasses and smiled up at him, flashing teeth. "There you are. Just in time--mister grumpy pants over here was about to open another bottle."

Methos shook his head, but got up and ambled toward the bar without protest, snagging a prawn on the way. "It's good to know some things don't change," he quipped, and popped the shrimp into his mouth.

"If you say so," Duncan said.

"Don't listen to him," Amanda said, pulling Duncan down to sit on the double chaise with her. "He's still got a bug up his you-know-what over some piddly little misunderstanding."

"That misunderstanding cost me fifteen thousand Euros in legal fees, I'll have you know."

"Pish tosh, like you can't afford it." She plucked a cracker spread with what looked like tapenade and peppers from a tray on the table nearby, and offered it to Duncan. "Try one of these, darling, they're delicious."

At the smell of olives and roasted garlic, Duncan's stomach rumbled. He laughed, self-conscious. "Guess I should."

"Of course you should." She laid a hand on his stomach, and he flinched a little before he could stop it. If she noticed, she didn't show it. "Look at you, you're wasting away. Do you even eat?" When he'd finished the cracker, she held out a piece of what looked like roasted fruit with honey, the juice sticky on her fingers; face warm, he let her put it into his mouth, tart juice and sweetness bursting over his tongue. She smiled impishly and licked the leftover honey off the tip of her thumb.

He chewed slowly and swallowed, squinting into the reddening sun. A moment later Methos appeared at his elbow and put a wide-bowled, cool wine glass into his hand.

Duncan held it up, impressed by the deep golden hue. "What is it?"

"Trust me, you'll like it." He gave one to Amanda and retired to his own chair, crossing his legs at the ankles. "And if you don't, blame Amanda. I find it's a good catch-all policy."

Amanda stuck out her tongue, then sat up and tucked her feet under her, raising her glass. "Let's have a toast."

Duncan and Methos followed suit. "After you," said Methos.

Amanda put her head on one side and tapped her lip, thinking, then beamed. "I know. To the late, great, Mateo de la Varga, for investing oh so wisely in real estate."

"Who was he?" Duncan asked, bemused. "Ex-husband?"

Amanda wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "I never was big on marriage, I'm afraid. Unlike some people."

She looked at Methos then, expectant, and Duncan followed her gaze. Methos sketched a gallant little flourish. "Senor de la Varga at your service."

Duncan grinned. "Of course, I should have guessed. To the late, great, Mateo de la Varga, then." They raised their glasses and drank. The wine unfolded in Duncan's mouth with perfect fruit and crispness, rolling over his tongue. He raised his eyebrows, approving, and Methos's answering smile said, _told you._ "So this is your place, then?"

"Mine, now," Amanda said, settling back with a satisfied smirk.

"Only because you stole it from me," Methos accused.

"I _won_ it from you, fair and square, and you know it."

Duncan laughed, unable to help himself; Methos shot him a look as if to say, _et tu?_ "Methos, I'm sorry," Duncan said, "but please tell me you didn't."

"What? How was I supposed to know _you'd_ steal an ancient relic from the bloody Tower of London?"

Amanda airily waved a hand. "Goes to show, Watchers don't know everything."

Methos looked so affronted, Duncan almost felt sorry for him. Almost. He raised his glass in salute, or maybe sympathy. "If it makes you feel any better," he said, "when it comes to Amanda, you're not the first."

Methos answered the salute with his own glass. "A pale comfort, to be sure."

They finished the bottle and opened a second. The sun doused itself in the deep indigo of the sea. They lounged on the patio until long after it had gone, eating stuffed baby squid and rolled grape leaves, talking of lives long past as if they were yesterday--or at least, Methos and Amanda did. Duncan mostly listened, and tried to hold up his end of the conversation.

"You all right?" Amanda asked, while Methos was inside working the sound system.

"Fine," he said brightly, finding a smile. "Why wouldn't I be? Good friends, good food, a view like that... you were right, this was exactly what I needed."

Her dark gaze searched his a little too perceptively, knew him a little too well. But Methos came back, then, and she let it go.

Flamenco guitar followed Methos from inside, no classical piece but messy and energetic with young energy. "I love these guys," Methos said, snagging Amanda in passing and dancing an impromptu turn with her, hips swaying. Her delighted expression and Methos's easy laugh made Duncan drain his glass and look away, afraid of embarrassing himself. It was surreal, being around them after so long. He hadn't realized until now that he'd never expected it to happen again.

He stood up, awkward, rubbing a hand over his face. "Guys, listen, this has been great, but I think I'm gonna turn in."

"What?" Amanda stopped and gave him a look, eyebrows lifting. "But it's early, darling. I thought we could walk down to the beach."

"It's been a long day for me," he said. "A long week. I think I'm still jet-lagged."

"Now, Amanda," Methos said, when Amanda opened her mouth to protest. "The man needs his beauty rest." He shot Duncan a look, eyes crinkling. "That much is obvious."

"Cute," Duncan told him, though he appreciated the out. He left them there with a smile that was half apology, and if they watched him go, he was careful not to look back.

 

* * *

 

Long shadows lay across the floor, light from the gas lamps outside pooling below the windows in the hallway. An open doorway drew him; in the room beyond, a familiar green jacket lay across the bed. Otherwise, the room was uncharacteristically neat, and Duncan guessed that Tessa must have been on Richie's case again. He wanted to go in, but something told him not to choose too hastily, and after a moment's hesitation, he moved on.

Further down the hall he came to another doorway, and in this room, sunlight slanted down, dust motes stirring among the artifacts and treasures of a dozen lifetimes. In the center of the round room was an exquisite, carved table, and atop it rested a sword case lined with blood red velvet, a dragon-headed katana resting within. Again Duncan hesitated at the threshold, but the hallway stretched away in both directions, doorways beckoning as far as the eye could see. For a long moment he stood uncertain, the desire to step inside gripping his heart, but the moment he did so, he knew, the hallway and the door itself would vanish, no going back.

He'd barely taken a step when something moved in the shadows at the end of the hall.

The hair at his nape lifted. He gripped his sword, noticing only then that it was in his hand. Wary, he prowled down the hall, passing door after door. In one room, he caught a glimpse of a chess set, the pieces poised mid-game as though waiting for their players; from another he could hear laughter. But it was the double doors at the end of the hall that drew him. A faint light glowed beyond the threshold. Blade held before him, he pushed them open.

Inside lay Tessa's workshop, the afternoon sun streaming into the shop like a Dutch painting. He could hear Tess in the next room talking to someone. She sounded relaxed, happy, and he felt so glad to hear her voice that it stopped him for moment, the relief breaking over him in a wave. She must be in the office, he thought, his heart as light as if he hadn't seen her that morning, as if it had been years. Ridiculous, what a fool he was for her, but he couldn't bring himself to care, and he started toward the sound of her voice.

When he got there, he realized that the acoustics must have fooled him. Now it sounded like she was behind him, in the showroom maybe, or outside in the alley. He held his breath, straining to hear what they were saying, but the other voice was low and he couldn't make it out. He listened hard, following the sound of the voices back the way he'd come.

In the shop, someone had hung crepe paper decorations, long, pale festoons like shrouds, ghostly in the shadows. She wasn't there either, but she was closer now, her voice clearer. "Tessa?" he called, following the sound of her voice. He heard her laughing then, teasing whoever she was talking to.

A chill touched him. Who was she talking to?

He tightened his grip on his sword, hurrying now through shadowed rooms that seemed unending, chains of faded, tattered paper brushing against his shoulders, the smell of ozone and wet concrete bitter in his throat. "Tess?" His fingers had gone numb with cold, and something without form was following at the edges of his vision, he could sense it, the scarlet herald he should have known would come.

Knowing he'd been tricked, sick with fear, he stopped--but even knowing the name of his fear, he couldn't help calling out again. "Tessa!"

"She can't hear you."

He spun at the sound, bringing his blade up. Connor sat on the steps of the escalator as if he'd been waiting. His sword lay across his knees, gleaming in the shadows.

"Connor?" he asked, hearing the hope in his own voice though he knew better, trying to see his kinsman's eyes.

"None of them can, you know," Connor told him, so gently he barely felt the cut.

"I know," he whispered, and the heaviness felt like it would press him into the concrete. A damp, cold wind lifted his hair from the back of his neck. Gray fog pressed around him, and when he looked back the way he had come, he could see no path, no doorway he could use to return. Instinctively he drew closer to his brother, his teacher. "Connor, please," he said, though the plea shamed him, "Can I not come with you?"

"He can't hear you either," said the figure in the shadows. And sword in hand it rose, eyes brilliant and red in the darkness, not Connor at all.

 

* * *

 

Duncan forced himself awake with a determined effort and lay breathing hard, jaw clenched, staring at the white plaster ceiling and waiting for the racing of his heart to slow. The transition from dream to full wakefulness was so abrupt it left him feeling shaky and disoriented. He wasn't surprised to find his shirt was damp with sweat, the bedclothes a tangled heap at the foot of the bed. When he'd shaken off the worst of it and remembered where he was, he rose with a resigned sigh and stripped off the shirt, knowing he was done with sleep for a while.

A sea breeze stirred the long white curtains at the terrace doors. Drawn by the promise of the night air pleasantly cool on his bare skin, he went to stand in the open doorway, then parted the gauzy fabric and stepped out onto the terrace.

The moon had lain itself out in a silver skein on the surface of the sea, and the sky was brilliant with stars. Their reflections rippled in the pool and Amanda surfaced, blinking water out of her eyes.

The last of the dream's hold on Duncan eased; heart lighter by considerable measure, he was about to start down the steps when the water rippled again and Methos surfaced close to her. Amanda didn't seem startled, just grinned and said something below Duncan's range of hearing.

Then Methos's hands came up, caressing her face. Their eyes met, Amanda's flashing in a way Duncan knew well. In another moment they had closed the distance between them; their lips met, parted, and they were kissing with unmistakable familiarity.

Duncan took a step backwards, into the shadows. For a moment his mind went blank, his heart beating harder than it should have. He felt... he didn't know what he felt. From the moment he'd seen Methos in the doorway he'd known, some part of him had known this. He claimed no hold on Amanda, and never had--she was a big girl, and didn't need his permission to find happiness where she could. Whatever comfort they'd found in one another in the past, it had never come with strings attached, and that understanding had suited them both fine.

But the image of his friends kissing, Methos's elegant hands against Amanda's dark hair, would not leave him, and the rush of heat he felt at inadvertently witnessing that intimacy turned in on itself, settling like an ache against his heart.

Their bodies moved, shimmery and distorted below the surface of the water; above, Methos gently guided the strap of Amanda's bathing suit over her shoulder, following it with the reverent press of his mouth. An achingly slow progression, it made Amanda sigh and relax into the caress, her hand coming up to rest against Methos's neck. Two sleek, dark heads bent together as Methos bared the soft curve at the top of her breast and traced it with his fingertips.

Heart thudding in his chest, Duncan felt his mouth go dry. The memory rose: the singular pleasure of kissing Amanda's magnificent breasts, holding their weight in his hands and playing from one rosy nipple to the other with his mouth, the sweet sounds she made, the flush of response coloring her fair skin. Curling heat unfurled in his own body, painful and unaccustomed, a soft lick of remembered desire in places he'd forgotten. _Amanda._ Female beauty and sexuality embodied, she'd fit him so well for so long, made him grateful to be alive and a man and Immortal so that he could have forever to learn all her secrets.

Now she warmed to another man's hands, and Methos was patience itself, baring her skin and learning each millimeter by the touch of his mouth. Unhurried, he caressed her through the wet fabric of her bathing suit, running his thumbs across her nipples and letting his lips map the graceful curve of her throat. Amanda made lazy ripples in the water, one hand moving slowly back and forth to keep herself pressed close.

A flush of guilt and piquant stimulation spread through Duncan. The rush of blood and feeling was like coming back from a long death or waking from a drugged sleep, his senses sharpened to hyper-awareness. At last, his touch deliberate, Methos exposed the pale swell of Amanda's breast. Duncan's breath caught, sympathetic reaction tingling. Methos said something, that low, teasing rumble at the edge of hearing; whatever Amanda answered, it was plainly encouragement, for Methos bent his head and took her nipple in his mouth.

Duncan made a sound, his own nipples hard and aching, his sex pressing gently against yielding fabric, undeniably erect. Breathing had become an uncertain thing, signals misfiring between his body and his brain.

He should turn around and go back inside. For his own sanity if not for decency's sake, he should tear his gaze away from the unmistakable expression of glazed pleasure on Amanda's face. But she was so beautiful, losing herself to sensation, eyes half-lidded, lips parting in that perfect combination of shamelessness and vulnerability that he'd always loved. And to his chagrin, the thought of Methos's wicked tongue, so agile with words, aroused him painfully.

The admission made him uncomfortable and he felt his face heat, but he couldn't deny the ache of his own flesh, the tangle of feelings that rose, watching them. Something so easy about the way they fit together, their pleasure in one another's bodies bespeaking no great passion but a deep and enduring friendship, a comfortable intimacy that made him hurt with the truth of it. Only a handful of years and his own choices separated him from them, no barrier or distance that was not of his own making. If he felt himself an interloper, he could find no fault in his friends.

Nor, it seemed, could he find it in himself to do the decent thing and go back inside. Methos had one hand under the water. In another moment he would--

The sound Amanda made was barely audible, but it went through Duncan in a hot shiver. Reflections prevented him from seeing what Methos had done to evoke that faint, pleading sound, but his imagination made up for it in spades, a flash of certainty he felt in his knees, the image of long fingers slipping into wet heat. Following on its heels, a kaleidoscope of imagined sensations spun through his thoughts, unbidden, revealing more than he wanted to know about his own buried feelings, his own hidden desires where Methos was concerned.

_Truth is within ourselves,_ he thought numbly when he could think again, drawing away at last from the threshold and turning back into the house. He found himself standing in the center of the bedroom, his body awake and hungry in a way it hadn't been in a long time. The breeze from the open doorway stirred the fine hairs at his neck, raising gooseflesh. Before he knew what he intended he was moving, rummaging silently in the closet for a shirt and pulling it on, finding his shoes.

He felt better once he was outside, the moon shining a clear path ahead, his feet carrying him across the stone driveway behind the house and up the rise beyond it. At the top, in one direction the grassy slope fell away in a long descent towards the road; in the other, a narrow footpath wound its way between the grass and the stones, beckoning. He stepped onto the path and began to run.

 

* * *

 

The kitchen light was on when he came in near dawn, clothes damp and sweat drying cold on his skin. He heeled off his dirty shoes in the front hall, then stood silent, listening. The house was quiet. Relieved, he returned to his room for a change of clothes, then slipped the car keys from their hook by the kitchen door and went back outside.

Late morning sunshine sparkled on the sea, dazzling his vision as he pulled up the drive hours later. He squinted and parked the car, getting out and retrieving his purchases from the back seat.

Amanda was already out on the patio, lounging by the pool in a black bikini, sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed hat. Methos sat barefoot at the breakfast bar sipping coffee. He looked up as Duncan came in, taking in the heavy cloth sacks he carried. His eyebrows rose. "Someone's been busy, I see."

Duncan carried the sacks into the kitchen and set them on the counter, beginning to unpack them. "Woke up early," he said. "Figured I'd visit the market, fix us some breakfast."

"Mmm," Methos said, noncommittal. Duncan felt his face warm. "There's coffee, if you like," Methos added, as if he hadn't noticed, "and figs from the garden."

Bowls of fruit, yogurt, sliced fresh bread, feta, and tomatoes went onto a tray. Duncan finished the yogurt with a drizzle of honey and found Methos hovering at his shoulder. The world's oldest five-year-old stole a slice of apricot, dipped it into the yogurt and popped it into his mouth, dodging Duncan's elbow with a smirk.

"Oh, cherries," Amanda said when he brought the tray out onto the patio. "You read my mind."

"Couldn't have you starving, now could I?"

Methos, trailing in his wake, gave a snort of derision. "Like that's likely."

Amanda smiled, serene. "Now, now, darling. Don't be rude. It's too nice a day."

The sun climbed the sky, began to seep into the terra cotta tile as they lounged and ate. Its rays weighed soft yet heavy on the skin, and sapped the desire to do anything but soak it up and breathe the smell of the sea, the gentle garden-scented breezes. Though he'd half-intended to make his excuses and leave that afternoon, Duncan thought it seemed ungrateful to fight it too hard.

 

* * *

 

Around mid-day, Amanda disappeared indoors, and Duncan heard water running. He stirred from the doze he'd slipped into and stretched.

Methos sat reading a few yards away. "Nice nap?" he asked without looking up.

"Mm," Duncan answered. Two could play at that game. He kept his eyes narrowed against the glare and surreptitiously surveyed Methos's profile through his lashes. "What time is it?"

Methos huffed a soft laugh through his nose. "You definitely haven't been here long enough if you're asking that question."

Duncan's mouth quirked. He turned and looked out at the view, the trees and rocks and wide, blue-green sea. The pool beckoned. "Time for a swim, then," he said.

Methos nodded and turned a page. "Now you're learning."

Maybe he was, Duncan thought, heading indoors to change. Last night, he'd struggled with his conflicted, uncomfortable feelings, all the more unsettling because he'd thought himself past the place where he could feel such things. Finding out he was wrong had been like feeling the blood rush back to starved limbs after hours of meditation, the same flood of painful sensation. But none of that mattered much in the face of seeing his friends find some measure of happiness; none of that changed the reasons he'd had for coming here in the first place.

Duncan shed his clothes and pulled on a pair of swim trunks, thinking it would serve them right if he went without. He thought he could guess what game Amanda was playing at; she knew him better than anyone, and he wouldn't put it past her to have seen his attraction to Methos long before he had. He couldn't be angry with her. For all her flaws, she didn't have a cruel bone in her body, and she couldn't know all the layers of fraught history that lay between the two of them.

That line of thought threatened to derail him into dangerous territory, and he closed the door on it firmly. He was here now, and there'd be plenty of time to have a serious talk with her about what boundaries he would and wouldn't permit her to cross. As for Methos, Duncan didn't trust himself. But he'd had plenty of practice at guarding himself from that quarter, and he was determined not to regret his decision to come here.

The second half of the day passed in much the same way as the first. Duncan swam laps for a long time, then lay in the sun, finally retreating indoors to shower and meditate. When he got hungry, he rummaged in the fridge for leftover olives and feta. The other two seemed to sense his need for space; he saw little of them, and thought they were keeping their own distance, Methos seemingly engrossed in his book and Amanda announcing in the afternoon that she was going shopping. Duncan wandered the gardens for a while, feeling better, more at peace, than he had in longer than he could remember.

Back inside, roaming the house as the late afternoon sun slanted in across the tile, he found a room full of nothing but bookshelves. Methos's house, he remembered, and smiled. He found a leather-bound copy of _The Good Soldier_ and stretched out on the couch to read; when he fell asleep, the book cradled between his thighs, he dreamed about nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

"I," Amanda announced, breezing through the door and setting her parcels down on the breakfast bar, "am officially bored."

Methos's head came up in alarm. "Heaven help us."

"You took the words right out of my mouth," said Duncan, not really kidding. They'd been listening to _Boris Godunov_ while he made dinner and Methos watched, providing unsolicited commentary on the opera and his cooking techniques.

Amanda rolled her eyes at them and pushed herself away from the counter, strolling around it with a sway of her hips. She laid a hand at the base of Duncan's neck and leaned close, looking into the pot he'd finished seasoning. "Is that cioppino?" she asked. "It smells absolutely divine."

"Close enough. It's _mariscada_\--the Spanish version."

"I knew there was a reason I kept you around," she said, and kissed him on the cheek. She'd moved away in the next breath and started rummaging in her shopping bags. "Wait'll you see what I bought. You're gonna love it." She stopped, and shot Duncan a sly smile. "No, wait, on second thought, it'll be a surprise--when the two of you take me dancing tonight." At Duncan's look, she held up a hand. "No excuses. And that goes for you, too," she added, before Methos could put his two cents in.

Duncan exchanged a look with Methos, who wore the same look of bemusement he did. "Did that sound to you like we have a choice in the matter?"

"What do you think?" Methos replied.

Amanda huffed her exasperation. "Don't look at me like that, you know you love it." She smiled, abandoning her bags to turn the full force of her undeniable charms on them both. "I know a great club, terrific music, decent drinks, the real deal." Draped over Methos's shoulder, she aimed her best pleading look at Duncan, who despite years of practice found he wasn't proof against it. "Come on, what do you say? Please? For me?"

"You really are shameless, aren't you?" said Methos.

"You're only figuring this out now?" Duncan said in disbelief. Amanda was still giving him the look, all little-girl, lost-kitten. He shook his head. "What kills me is that I still fall for it."

"Yes!" Amanda crowed, and jumped, clapping her hands.

"Only yourself to blame," Methos told him, failing to hide his amusement.

"Yeah," Duncan muttered. "Don't remind me."

 

* * *

 

He'd been dubious about the whole thing to begin with, but when he stepped out into the living room and saw Methos standing at the bar opening a bottle of wine, he began to appreciate how bad an idea this was.

He cleared his throat. "That's a new look for you," he said, when Methos looked up and caught him staring. Methos was wearing black, flowing trousers, a black tank top, and a belt with a silver buckle. With his tan and casually chic hairstyle, he looked like a model--or an extremely expensive paid companion.

"Not really," Methos said, voice mild. Embarrassed, Duncan turned and crossed to the couch. As soon as he sat down, he wished he had something to do with his hands. "You look good," Methos added, and the flush of heat Duncan felt only confirmed that he was in over his head.

He was saved by Amanda's entrance, which she made in typical Amanda fashion. "So?" she asked, turning a slow circle. "What do you think?"

Duncan rose and took her hand as she glided down the steps into the sunken living room. "You look beautiful," he told her, meaning it. "Even more than usual."

"Ditto," Methos chimed in, eyes bright with admiration. "Better bring your sword, Mac. We're gonna have to fight them off in droves."

She laughed and took the wine glass he offered her, waiting until Duncan followed suit to raise it in a toast. "To us," she said, the backless, darkly-sequined halter top she wore swaying and glinting with the movement. She wore a fine silver chain around her midriff, and it peeked over the waist of her tight, fashionable jeans; when she moved, the scent of her perfume teased Duncan's nostrils.

"To us," he echoed, his voice rough at the edges.

It occurred to him belatedly that his earlier confidence in his ability to handle this situation had perhaps been premature.

 

* * *

 

The taxi dropped them at the curb, the steady thump of the bass thrumming up from the pavement before they even got out. On the sidewalk, Amanda hooked one arm in his and one in Methos's; between them, she led the way past the line and straight up to the bouncer at the door, who nodded at her like they were old friends and let them in for the price of a kiss on the cheek.

Inside, the music was deafening. It was also as hot as the inside of a steam room, and Duncan was glad for the thin T-shirt he wore.

Methos leaned close, his breath teasing at Duncan's ear as he shouted, "I don't know about you, but I'm going to need a drink."

"At least one," Duncan fervently agreed.

They made their way to the closest bar, losing Amanda to the writhing throng of young bodies before they'd gone fifteen feet. The sensory assault was a drug in itself, and Duncan felt as though his blood throbbed and pulsed in time with the beat. Methos made a beeline for the pretty young bartender; Duncan let him handle things, since he seemed to have it under control.

He expected beer, but when Methos turned and put a drink in his hand, it was a small glass, milky and smelling of anise: ouzo. He took it gratefully and sipped; it was cold, refreshing, and bittersweet. Methos flashed a smile at him, then turned and leaned one elbow on the bar, taking in the scene. There was no point in trying to talk.

Amanda loved places like this. She'd gotten him to take her once or twice in Paris, and it wasn't his thing but he had to admit he could see the appeal. To lose oneself in the music, in the pure physical response of the body, was a pleasure uncomplicated by anything outside the thumping beat and strobing lights. In here, for a few hours, nothing else mattered.

Duncan let his gaze wander. The clientele was universally young, wearing as little as possible, and if the place had one rule it seemed to be, keep the alcohol flowing. No one here was feeling any pain.

He felt his eyes drawn to the place where they'd lost Amanda. It wasn't hard to spot her in the crowd. She had her arms raised, her hair swept off her neck, and moved to the music like it owned her. Methos was right, he thought, watching the young men drawn to her like moths. One of them should have brought a sword.

As if he'd read the thought, Methos twisted around beside him and signaled the bartender. A minute later, with a smile Duncan read as a dare, he took Duncan's mostly-empty glass and traded it for a full one, then left him, letting himself be swallowed up by the pulsing lights and gyrating bodies. Duncan saw heads turn as Methos made his way through the crowd. He couldn't blame them. Feeling an unsteady flutter low in his belly, he averted his eyes and took a sip of the substantial measure of scotch Methos had handed him.

Who was he fooling? Not himself, certainly. In moments he'd downed half the glass and had eyes for nothing but the two of them, the energy in the club seeming to spike in their immediate circle as Methos reached her and Amanda surrendered to his claim without ever touching him. Watching them move together, their easy sensuality and natural balance, Duncan couldn't pretend to be immune, and when Amanda turned her head to look at him, his body reacted despite himself.

She arched her brows at him, echoing Methos's dare, and Duncan shook his head. His fingers tightened on his drink. He could feel sweat prickling at his pulse points, and an overpowering urge to get the hell out of there. He tried to tell himself that he was misreading the situation, that this wasn't what it seemed--a bald-faced conspiracy between the two of them to seduce him--but he was hard-pressed to read it any other way. As for his resolve of earlier in the day, it had deserted him, and the question of how much of this was Amanda's idea and how much Methos's seemed all-important.

Under the buzz of alcohol and the deep throb of the bass, old feelings stirred within him, and he didn't know any more whether he should be relieved by that, or alarmed. Most of all, he didn't know how to cope with the sudden knowledge that his friends hadn't simply walked away from their shared past the way he'd tried to for so long.

The music changed. It gripped the blood harder, and Duncan found himself draining the rest of his glass, pushing himself away from the bar. He threaded his way through the sea of bodies, feeling himself pulled along by their sexual energy. Caught in the grip of it, he let instinct carry him; what felt like moments or maybe hours later, Amanda was touching his shoulder, his waist, guiding him into the rhythm of her body.

He closed his eyes, but he felt it like a gut punch when Methos closed the circuit behind her, one hand resting at Amanda's hip.

 

* * *

 

Duncan had a moment, standing on the curb in the cool, early hours of morning, where he watched the other two kiss with slow, lazy heat, and reason tried to assert itself. He might have balked had Amanda not latched on to his belt and refused to let him back away.

"Amanda--" he said, stiff, avoiding their eyes.

She shut him up by dragging him in, kissing him with salt on her lips. They'd danced for hours, and despite the drinks they'd fed him, Duncan felt all too sober.

Amanda's tongue teased his, and he closed his eyes against the sight of Methos watching them. "Tell it to somebody who hasn't known you for four hundred years," she said when she broke away, voice husky from breathing the fog machine smoke.

Head bent against hers, heart skipping in his chest, he swallowed and nodded.

She pulled him into the back of the taxi; Methos rode up front, the car too small for them to squeeze in together. Duncan held her tucked against him, letting his head fall back against the seat. She seemed content to do nothing more than stroke his hair, a slow, soothing rhythm, and it would have been a lie to say he wasn't glad for the reprieve. Somewhere in the last few hours, he'd gone past turned on into some torturous, low-level state of arousal that seemed to hum under every inch of his skin. The bare, warm silk of Amanda's back made his throat ache, and he was pretty sure that if Methos actually touched him with more than the casual brush of his fingers, he was likely to self-combust.

After hours of deafening noise, the ride home felt eerily silent, the wind from the open windows cool against his face. Duncan closed his eyes and let the sweat dry from his skin, the tension flow out and away. He felt light, unanchored. The man he'd once been felt far away, left behind in some other lifetime.

The car stopped. He was aware of Methos paying the driver, aware of Amanda's hand resting warm and still against his heart. "We're home," he said, and she stirred, smiled up at him as if he'd answered a riddle with the right answer.

They went inside. Duncan felt Methos's presence close behind him. Amanda led the way through darkened hallways, across the moonlit patio, along a breezeway to glass doors and her bedroom beyond. At the threshold, she took his hand and drew him inside.

She left him only long enough to turn on the sound system and put in a CD. Music with a slower, still sensual beat began to play, its low rhythm spilling out from hidden speakers. Eyes on Duncan, she came back and leaned up against him, her breasts soft, her perfume warm and faint now, mixed with the scent of her body; she reached up and drew a hand gently down his cheek, then closed her eyes and kissed him, sweet and full on the lips.

It had been so long that for a moment, he forgot everything else and gave himself to it. They'd always been good together, but never so much as now, years between them and too many regrets to count. Unthinking, he brought his hand up, covered hers, tracing the long lines of her fingers. The haunting music pulsed through him, and he let the kiss draw out, savoring it, then finally letting it go.

She pulled away and reached out a hand. Methos took it and stepped close, bending his head at her urging to kiss her with the same slow care, the same tenderness. The knot of Duncan's response wound deep in his chest. Then Methos pulled back and met his gaze.

Duncan's mouth felt dry. Butterflies turned in his stomach, unsteady flutters and underneath, the zero-gravity sensation of vertigo. He could feel Amanda watching them, intent, but couldn't seem to look anywhere but at Methos's leaf-colored eyes. He drew a deep breath.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he brought his hand up and laid it awkwardly on Methos's shoulder, his thumb resting against the warm beat of Methos's pulse. He leaned forward barely knowing he did it; Methos swayed into the motion, so subtly that he hardly moved. It was up to Duncan to close the distance, and he did so, intent now on Methos's mouth as he leaned in, closed his eyes and brought his lips down to brush hesitantly against Methos's.

Methos's breath teased his lips, and he let himself test the softness of Methos's mouth. He held himself still, heart beating fast in his ears. He'd been so sure this would never happen, but here they were, Methos's shoulder warm and solid under Duncan's hand, his lips parting.

Duncan's breath hitched, a soft, choked sound he couldn't help. Without thought he brought his other hand up and stepped in close, held Methos's head still and asked for more with his tongue. With gratifying eagerness, Methos opened his mouth and let him in.

Methos's tongue met his, twined hotly. Duncan groaned. Distantly, he knew Methos's hand found his hip, that they were pressing up against each other, mouths melting together with sudden heat. Duncan's erection met with a solid stiffness when he rubbed their hips together, and the shock of sensation made him shudder and catch his breath.

He broke away and bent his head against Methos's neck, trembling with reaction. Christ, if this was what one kiss was like, he feared for his sanity if they went further.

"Guess that answers that question," Amanda said, fervent approval in her tone.

Duncan swallowed. "Guess it does."

"No argument here," Methos said, sounding as breathless as Duncan felt. "But maybe we better try it again to be sure."

"Tell you what," Amanda said. "You two continue that conversation while I take care of a few things."

When she'd vanished into the bathroom, Duncan turned his head, found Methos's pulse with his lips and tongue. The smell and taste of his skin were immediately addicting, but better still was the way Methos shivered against him when Duncan licked and bit him there, mapping the contours of his throat and jaw. Methos tilted his head back and held Duncan's close, encouraging. His hair, stiff with salt and gel, prickled Duncan's palm. His cock lay hard against Duncan's.

"Tell me what you like," Duncan urged, the stretch of Methos's tank top in his hands and his palms sliding under to find bare skin. He immediately wanted more and raked his fingers up Methos's back, making him gasp. "Tell me--"

Methos answered by pushing himself against Duncan's body and demanding voracious use of his mouth, his tongue. His belt buckle dug into Duncan's stomach and, Jesus, Methos could kiss. Duncan moaned faintly and gave himself up to it willingly, letting Methos have his way.

When they broke again for air, he couldn't help the grin that quirked at his mouth.

"Something funny?" Methos asked, eyebrow raised.

"No, just--" Duncan touched the soft hair at Methos's temple, thinking of how many times he'd wanted to do that. He let his eyes roam over Methos's face, relearning its sharp angles. "How come we never did this before?"

"Because Amanda's not usually one for sharing?" Methos said, amused.

"Besides that," said Duncan. He spread his hands against Methos's muscular back and reveled in the solid feel of him.

Amanda came back into the room and began lighting candles here and there, directing an indulgent look their way.

"She seems fine with it now," Duncan observed.

"That's because she's not in love with you any more. At least, she thinks she isn't."

"Mm," Duncan agreed. He studied the bow-shape of Methos's mouth, imagining it stretched around his cock. "And you?"

Methos chuckled. "Me? I'm quite sure she's not in love with me."

"Smartass. You know what I meant."

Methos's lips curved, the sphinx-smile. "Foolish boy."

"You two had enough time to work things out yet?" Amanda teased, coming up behind Duncan and reaching around to unbuckle his belt.

"Maybe in another five centuries or so," Duncan said, and Methos's eyes crinkled at the corners in wry agreement. Duncan finally let him go and brought his hands down to cover Amanda's. He pulled her around in his arms, putting a little distance between himself and Methos so he could breathe. "What are you doing?"

"Just trying to help things along," she said, all innocence. She was barefoot but otherwise still dressed. She cupped Duncan's face in her hands, then took his hand and pulled him playfully toward the bed. When they neared it, she reached up and unfastened a hidden clasp at the back of her neck; the shimmery halter top slipped off and she cast it aside, gloriously bare to the waist save for the silver chain.

Little was said for a while then, as Methos joined him in caressing her breasts, Methos in front and Duncan behind, supporting their weight and stroking the soft curves underneath while Methos kissed and bit her nipples. When she was breathless and flushed, Methos helped Duncan unfasten her jeans and slide them off.

Methos's clothes were next. He was as beautiful and spare as Duncan had always imagined, his cock curving up full and proud against his belly, enough to make Duncan's throat go dry.

Amanda pushed Duncan down to sit on the edge of the bed and knelt behind him, pulling his T-shirt off. This close to temptation, Duncan couldn't help himself; under Methos's hungry gaze, he reached out and pulled the other man to him, closed his eyes and bent to nuzzle his lips against Methos's cock. His tongue slipped out to taste. The salty slickness of Methos's precome slid over his palate and he made a soft sound of need. He wrapped an arm around Methos's hips and sucked him deep, lost in the earthy pleasure of it.

"Mac." Methos sounded ragged, undone. In answer, Duncan teased the sensitive bundle of nerves under the head, and Methos's breath hissed between his teeth. His hand came to rest heavy on Duncan's head. "Mac, please. Stop."

Duncan did as he asked, though it wasn't what he wanted. "Something wrong?" he asked.

Amanda shifted around beside him. She held his gaze, suddenly intent.

"Duncan, listen to me. Look at me. We're not letting you go."

Duncan frowned. "What are you talking about?" She shook her head, tight, and he looked to Methos for explanation. But Methos's expression held the same intensity, the same anger under the surface.

"It's not that easy, MacLeod. Joe told me how you tried to say goodbye to him in London. Very touching."

Taken aback, Duncan wanted to protest, but he couldn't deny it. It had been goodbye, even if he'd never said the words. Just like he'd intended when he got on that plane for Athens.

"You jerk," Amanda said then, softly. "You didn't really think you'd get away with it, did you? What do you take us for?"

He looked at her; her eyes were wet, and Duncan found himself with tears in his own. Of all the things he'd expected, this wasn't one of them.

"It was never about you," he said, voice rough. "Any of you. You have to know that."

"What I know," said Methos, "is that there comes a time when you have to accept that no one makes it through this life on their own." His gaze held Duncan's, intent. "Trust me, MacLeod. I know of what I speak."

Duncan's chest felt heavy. "Yeah," he said, his blood pounding slow and inexorable. He reached out and stroked Amanda's hair. "I hear you."

"Glad to hear it," Methos said, his eyes bright.

Amanda let out a breathless, relieved laugh. "That makes two of us." She squeezed Duncan's hand, then tugged him back onto the bed, baring her teeth in a play snarl. "Now, do what I say for the next few hours, and I might forgive you."

He gave in, helpless to do anything else. She and Methos together were a formidable force, and they didn't spare him; Amanda held him still and kissed him, scratching patterns on his chest while Methos worked his jeans off. Methos's palms on his bare legs and hips made him shiver. He closed his eyes and lost himself in Amanda's kisses and the powerful rush of need that started to build in his body as they made love to him without shame or hesitation. Methos kissed and bit gently at his neck, his shoulders--he groaned and gave way, rolling onto his back so that Methos could spread himself out on top, their naked bodies coming together with a hot brush of skin.

He broke the kiss with Amanda, looking down with hooded eyes. Methos was braced over him on hands and knees, watching them. Duncan reached for the back of Methos's neck, pulled him up and claimed his mouth, deep and wet and hungry.

Amanda sighed. "Really not going to get tired of that any time soon."

"I know what you mean," Methos said, voice rough when he broke away at last. His eyes raked Duncan's body. "Christ, Mac, I really want to do you. Will you let me?"

Every instinct Duncan possessed said yes before he even had time to think about it. Against the sudden fist of arousal in his belly, he swallowed and tried to draw breath. Beside him, Amanda was holding hers. The thought of her watching made heat flame up his neck, and he couldn't prevent the low shudder that ran through him.

"Yes," he said hoarsely. "I want you to." There'd been no one like that for him since Connor, but there was nothing he wanted more.

"Duncan," Amanda breathed, stroking his hair back off his face. He met her look, saw her reach out and run the backs of her fingers against Methos's arm as if she'd invented the two of them and couldn't be more pleased with the result. She sighed and tucked herself in against him, resting her head against his. "He's going to make you feel so good. Aren't you, Methos?"

"Dangerous little vixen," Methos growled, seizing her hand and mock-biting her wrist. She squeaked, and he apologized with lips and tongue, nipping his way up her arm for a moment before pushing himself back off the bed with easy grace. "Don't go anywhere," he warned them both.

He opened the leather-tooled box on the night stand and took out a jar, setting it within easy reach, then knelt back on the bed between Duncan's knees. "Relax, Duncan," he said, stroking his hands down Duncan's flanks and thighs, then between them, a heated, calculated pressure against his balls and the muscle beneath. Duncan spread his legs and tried to control his breathing but he was as hard as he'd ever been, his cock leaking onto his belly. Methos's eyes were hot on his and he read the urgency there. Later there'd be time for exploration, but this first time was going to be fast, and he wanted it that way. He nodded.

Amanda stroked his side, took his hand. Methos slicked himself with the cream lubricant, then scooped a generous measure of it onto two fingers and reached for the furl of Duncan's opening, pressing in firm but gentle circles.

God-- oh, God. Duncan choked it back, eyes closing despite himself, and turned his face into Amanda's neck. She kissed his cheek, stroked his temple, and Duncan swallowed, his throat dry and his heart beating hard. "Do it," he choked out. Methos's fingers slid into him, and he shuddered, felt his whole body give a heartfelt assent.

He stood it as long as he could. Methos stroked the cream inside him, circled his fingers to loosen the muscle, awakening a deep, thick pleasure that flowed through Duncan in hot waves. At last he couldn't take it any more and surged up, reaching for Methos and pulling his hand out, grabbing him by the balls and slick cock and pushing Methos inside him. Then they were fucking, deep and slow, Methos giving it to him the way he needed it, his own body straining for it. They clutched at each other and Methos wound his fingers in Duncan's hair, licked him open and kissed him, deep and fervent, their breath coming in short, muffled gasps into each other's mouths.

Methos went slowly at first, but it was too much, urgency building before Duncan really wanted it to. "Amanda," Methos managed, breaking away, voice ragged and desperate. He drove into Duncan with fast, forceful thrusts, pushed him down and grabbed Duncan's hips so he could fuck harder.

His cock felt like a hot iron bar sliding inside Duncan, immense and relentless and so good Duncan couldn't think. He didn't know what Methos wanted, didn't care, until a slick, warm hand closed over his cock and stroked nerves that felt like they all fired at once. Duncan threw his head back and panted, riding Methos's thrusts and Amanda's slippery grip on his cock, barely aware of what he was doing when he turned his head and found Amanda's mouth, opening for her tongue with a low moan. His hand found the back of her head; he wrapped his legs around Methos's waist and urged him on.

_Not letting you go,_ Methos told him with every thrust, and the throb and hum of Duncan's response overpowered him; he couldn't escape it.

"Methos," Duncan gasped, breaking away as orgasm started to take him. Methos thrust deep and curled in over their bodies. He bent his head to Duncan's shoulder as he shuddered and came, as he cried out and muffled it in Duncan's neck. There might have been words locked in his throat, but he held them back, pulsing hot within Duncan's body and shaking with release.

When it was over, Duncan lay dazed, Methos still pressed inside him. Amanda stroked him through the last of the aftershocks, his own come a sticky mess on his chest and belly. He raised an unsteady hand to the back of Methos's head and rested it there, trying to catch his breath. At last he met Amanda's bright gaze.

She was flushed, arousal written all over her, like she'd been given the Hope diamond all wrapped up in a bow. Duncan cleared his throat.

"Methos," he said, voice husky.

"Mm," Methos responded. He sounded blissed out to within an inch of his life, but when Duncan said nothing else, he finally lifted his head.

He seemed to get it, because he pulled out, eased Duncan's legs down and rubbed at thigh muscles that had started to cramp. Duncan let him go and shifted up with some difficulty, then rolled over on top of Amanda, moving down between her legs.

"You," Duncan growled, low in his throat.

"Oh, my," she breathed, sounding faint.

He buried his face against her. She was so wet he could smell nothing but her arousal, sweet and hot, and when he licked her, the taste burst lemony over his tongue. At her cry, he moaned softly and closed his eyes, licking her slow. "Methos, help me out, here," he murmured, circling unhurried over slick heat. She shivered and made the pleading sound he loved so much, the one that told him she hoped he'd never stop doing what he was doing.

When Methos slid around behind her and held her down, Duncan settled in and did his best to oblige.

 

* * *

 

Much later, when they lay curled together and spent in the guttering candlelight, Duncan said, "You could have given me some warning, you know."

Amanda was out cold, her limbs sprawled and long, graceful feet tucked against Duncan's calves. It was Methos who stirred and looked up, a wan smile finding its way to his lips.

"Where's the fun in that?"

 

  
_~ end ~_


End file.
